The Winter War
by RyuFanatic
Summary: The Winter War. "No one is the victor in war." Time: 1939-1940. A Finnish sniper meets a Soviet soldier he can't find the will to shoot down. *Mostly ramblings*


The Winter War 1939-1940, Russia against Finland.

This story is VERY inaccurate, as you will learn. Though I wrote it not to be historically correct; it's more of my thoughts and musings on the Winter War.

Inspired by stories of Finland's amazing snipers and also my learning of the WW, the KH song _Dearly Beloved_, and the youtube video:

**www. youtube .com/watch?v=g8wXmLFjMZA** (check it out, you know you want to :D;; the time frame for the Winter War snippet is 1:35 - 1:48 btw)

QQ;; You are beloved, Russia and Finland. ;^;

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**Finland. Part 1. Wishful Dying. **

He was watching for any intruders on the western hill. Snow packed the landscape, every bit as familiar to him as his backhand, and he was starting to get used to the chilling cold. He _had_ been stationed in the exact same spot for almost eight hours, after all. His friends would join him soon; they had gone off an hour ago in search of other Finnish soldiers to relay the news of the Soviets coming way into the banks of the river.

Simo leaned his head back against the foxhole, resting his face on his scarf. It was his 3rd month here, in the midst of the coldest winter he had ever known, and he was fighting a bloody, unimaginable war in such arctic conditions. He was on a break, since he'd spot no Soviets coming his way yet, and he chose this time to just stare heavenward and collect his thoughts.

The sky was a brilliant streak of red-gray, the clouds of smoke rising and suffocating the cool air until all he smelled was the sulfur and burned ruins. Ruins of both body and buildings. He felt weary, the weight of the weapon in his hand just one of the many burdens he bore. He didn't know why he was here, didn't know why he was killing so many-countless-people on this bloody battlefield. And why those Soviets, who had even less right than him, would invade his homeland...

The thing in his hand, so light yet heavy, heavy in the sense of what it could do with just a bullet and a good aim. Heavy in the sense that it was a tool of murder, a tool to slaughter those he hated, who hated him back. He shouldn't feel bad, he thought, shouldn't have even the smallest pity for that damned country, and the people. Had _they_ considered the damage, the pain they would inflict upon Finland, upon the innocent who could not fight back as they watched their homes and the people they love be destroyed...? Had they considered the hardship that every soldier, every person willing to resist, had to endure as they fought and fought against overwhelming odds, against a tide that wasn't shifted in their favor? No. Nothing like that mattered. Not in war, when the mind of a person was controlled by the will and instinct guided by nature, to do as everything in nature did when pushed back into a corner- to continue on, fight, and never give in.

He should not have felt bad. Should not have trembled when he picked up his rifle to inspect and adjust here and there, making sure it was in top-condition for the next battles he would face. But he couldn't help it but remember the faces of the dozens, hundreds, of men who had fallen before his rifle. Never knowing what had hit them, never thinking that, as they trudged through the snowy landscape, a beast was waiting around the corner- the hands of death. A hand so swift and deadly that their thoughts were already frozen in time, to a dream of returning home or sitting around a fire with friends and family, enjoying life and not thinking of war and bloodshed, a dream so vivid and believable in their minds that, when they were hit, only such thoughts were engraved in their memories. And it was, to Simo, perhaps a very merciful death. To be able to imagine such things, to have something so peaceful and beautiful forever locked in them as the last tangible thing in the world... It was so much better than the suffocating, cold nightmares of murder and slaughter that haunted him when he would close his eyes and see the faces of the men he'd killed.

Maybe he would be happier if he was dead. Dead and dreaming of the warmth of a sun on his back, the comfort of the ones he loved by his side.

Simo shivered, wrapping his coat closer to his body, and wished for the smell of sulfur to fade away, for the rancid, stained thoughts in his head to dissipate into nothing but the past.

But the past, like the future, had a cruel way of refusing the person even one ounce of mercy, and though he yearned for it to end as a dream, the days and nights continued to stretch on.

It was as boundless as the frosty winter, a winter as cold as the hearts of those trapped within it.

**End. Part 1.**

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**Finland. Part 2. A Lost War, A Saved Country  
**

When he saw the boy, walking through the snow in the middle of the battlefield, aimlessly searching for something, he had felt a jolt throughout his body. The boy was a Soviet soldier, of that Simo could tell by his uniform, but his age and stance undeniably spoke of inexperience, of innocence. That was the only reason he hadn't instantly shot the boy down.

Simo had spied him almost immediately upon hearing the sounds of boots crunching on the snow. In one quick moment, the rifle was in his hands, already aimed at the child's heart. But he had hesitated, drawn in by the bewildered atmosphere the soldier had around him. One of such confusion and fear, masked by a dark and unsettling determination. He did not know why, but his subconscious was telling him he would regret killing this child. A child forced into the body of a grown man. So Simo had watched, with wary eyes, while the boy wandered through the snow, back and forth, looking around with wide eyes. _To him_, Simo thought,_ snow is not new. But this land is not his own, and so he feels lost in it._ A strange and sudden emotion filled his chest. _Could it be_, the Finnish man thought in surprise,_ I am feeling pity for this child?_

"Так холодно!" the boy suddenly shouted. His pale cheeks were stained with tears, and his arms were stiff on his sides. He hadn't even bothered to arm himself, his weapon slung uselessly on his back. "Так холодно!" he repeated in a louder voice, as though telling the entire world his thoughts, "И мне так больно..."

Simo could only stare at the child in shock. Was he trying to get himself killed? This was_ war_, did he not know that hidden behind packs of snow or underneath a matted lump in the ground was a Finnish sniper, ready to murder him on sight?

But the boy continued shouting in his Russian language, his voice almost seeming to echo around the white snowy land. In the distance, Simo could make out the sound of his comrades returning from their trek to the the other camp, and he knew that when they came back, they would have no mercy on the Soviet soldier. A certain, wild fear overtook his mind and a single thought registered through the haze -_ This child must not die! _And there was only one thing he could do to prevent the death.

Simo raised his rifle, took careful aim, and at the last second, he closed his eyes and fired.

//

"You got another one, eh, Simo?"

"Good work, Simo, very nice."

"What is this, your one millionth kill now?"

They all laughed and slapped him good-naturally on the back. They had only just returned and saw the body of the Russian soldier in the snow and that, coupled with the news of the 4th unit's dispatched of at least three hundred Soviets, caused them to be in such a cheery mood.

Simo smiled weakly in return, silently waiting for them to leave him alone, and fast too.

It was another hour or so before his allies consented with his wishing, declaring that they were hungry. They decided to hurry back to Unit 3 for some dinner and then call it a day; there didn't seem to be too many enemies on the front.

"You are not coming?" someone asked him quizzically.

"No, I will be right there," he replied, "after I finish some business."

//

What else could he have done? How else could he have saved the boy if not by shooting him? If not by shooting him in the shoulder, wounding him, so that he appeared dead to the others, so that they wouldn't try to aim for a more vital part of him, then what? But Simo was almost certain that, by now, the Soviet was already dead. He laid in the snow, blood staining it red underneath his collapsed body, a body that was slowly losing warmth by the second. He bent down and took the rifle from the soldier's back, knowing that it would come in handy later; supplies had been running low for them. But a twinge of guilt made him pause. He never liked stealing from the dead- it seemed so disrespectful. _And the boy himself..._

Simo placed the rifle next to the soldier's body and stood to get up when a sluggish hand reached out to clasp his wrist.

It was pure instinct to lift his own weapon and point it down at the boy, but of course he didn't fire.

"So you are alive?" Simo stared down at the Soviet, whose eyes struggled to remain open. It was instant death to fall asleep in the cold; you would never wake up.

"Кто?" the boy croaked softly. His fists clenched tightly and a trickle of blood slid from his mouth. "Who is really alive, and who isn't?" he muttered in a bitter voice.

Simo was surprised at his dejection. "_You_ are alive. You are living, breathing, and talking. You are alive."

There was a silence and a gust of wind blew across the barren landscape. The Soviet shivered from the chill, and attempted to sit up. "I am so cold," he whispered, "It feels as though I am the walking dead."

And he glanced at Simo, with violet eyes weary and broken, and told of so many things without speaking. The words like _I want to go home_ or_ I am too tired to continue anymore_, the famous face of defeat that every soldier had before they finally gave in, accepting their fate, and relented to death. And he saw, for just a second, a glimpse of himself in the other's gaze. A form clouded in a fog, as intangible as the dream of peace, of life without bloodshed, and he thought to himself, _He is me. And I am him. _

How many bodies had this boy seen in his lifetime? How much hardship had he endured in life, to look so torn and empty inside?

The Soviet's hand reached to clench his sleeve and his body shook. From anger or fear, Simo didn't know. But the blazing look in the boy's glare told him- _You should have killed me. _

"So that you may dream of a beautiful fantasy which will never come true?" Simo whispered, answering aloud. So that he may dream of something he would never have again? Now Simo saw the truth, and of course he had known it all along. That his people would never win the war, not matter how hard they resisted. No matter how many men he killed, and no matter how many victories they celebrated. Because, really, no one was a victor in war.

_But_, Simo thought and he smiled to himself, _we, as humans, harbor this immense will. A will as strong as the largest tempest, a will that refuses to be beaten even in the most extreme of situation._

"Do not give up," Simo said simply. "Do not give in because life judges you in this one strange manner. Even if you are overwhelmed and wish for the end to all, it will never come, and the only thing left to do is get up and keep fighting." He slowly bent down again and his hand reached out to help the boy up. "My people hate you," Simo continued. "And it was a sad day when you decided to invade us."

The Soviet narrowed his eyes and his voice was just a sigh. "You will lose this war."

"Yes," Simo replied and he was still smiling, "but you know, in your heart, who really lost."

The boy was silent, his expression unreadable, and when he finally grunted and accepted Simo's hand, the sniper realized that this was the end. It seemed almost like the closing part of a long-winded play.

Simo watched the boy stand up and start his limp to the west, onward into an uncertain future, and thought,_ Life is so painful... but you must endure it for the beauty that comes after pain. _

He had saved this Soviet... this Soviet who was special and who should never die, because if he did, then his people would also die with him.

"I have saved you, Russia," Simo whispered. "So do not let me down."

**End. Part 2.**

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Translations:

Так холодно = It is so cold

И мне так больно... = and I am in such pain...

Кто? = Who?

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A/N: Yes, Finland did lose the Winter War. Though, as Simo said, "No one is a victor in war."

I used the name Simo from Simo Häyhä, the sniper who killed over 500 Soviets O.O!

Simo in this fanfic represents Finland, and of course the Soviet soldier was Russia, or Ivan. These two people stand for their country, so look closely at what they said and meant in the story ^^

War is a terrible thing, and I had to write this to let out my frustration at it. Hope you guys enjoyed and please don't be offended by anything in this fanfic. It is not supposed to mean anything, it are just my ramblings ;D


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